Chapter 16 #3
“From fixing up your house or eating your pussy?”
She scowls at me. Her eyes are still covered, but I see the way her forehead furrows. “I want you.”
“For how long?”
She purses her lips. “Why don’t you just tell me the answer you want, Saylor. Will that speed this up?”
“So bossy,” I tease before blowing on her center. She shudders as she releases a small gasp. “Give me the honest answer.”
“You’re holding my orgasm hostage for some big emotional revelation you think I should be sharing. That’s manipulative. Big red flag.”
I rise, pull up her blindfold for a millisecond so she can see me lick my lips. I adjust the tie so her world goes dark once more. “Sure is. So walk away. I dare you.”
I wait. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Letting her body step back from the edge, letting the wave recede just enough that when it builds again it’ll be bigger.
“God, maybe it’s a good thing I’m blindfolded right now.
Look, I want you to really think about what you want, Saylor.
Because you’re coming on strong and I love it.
You treat me like I’m the prize and you’re willing to work for it, and that’s not fair.
Because once you get what you want, you will wake up and realize that you’re way too young to worry about getting old.
This age gap isn’t going to make sense.”
“Celeste,” I breathe. “I’m already awake. And I know what I want.”
I spread her thighs back apart, scoot her to my open mouth.
She’s trembling. The chair is trembling.
I return to her slowly. Gently at first, rebuilding what I pulled away, and the moan she releases this time is deeper, rawer, the sound of a woman who has been edged and knows what she’s owed and is done being polite about it.
She finds the back of my head with both hands now, pulling me closer with an authority that has nothing to do with her status and everything to do with a body that is finished asking and has started demanding.
I give her everything.
This time she doesn’t even try to control it.
Her whole body locks, every muscle in her thighs and stomach tightening so hard she’s shaking, and when I push two fingers inside her and curl them, she makes a sound that’s not so much a moan as a wail, the kind of noise that would make grown men panic and run toward the source to see if someone is dying.
She’s coming before she even realizes it, the orgasm ripping through her so fast and sharp she throws her head back and nearly bites through her own hand.
I keep my mouth locked to her clit, my tongue unrelenting, my fingers stroking inside her, and she just keeps coming.
The release is so intense it’s almost violent.
Her legs clamp around me, her hips buck, and she lets out a cry that’s equal parts agony and relief, like a wound being cauterized.
When she finally collapses, it’s not graceful.
She just melts, boneless, all pretense of composure gone, slumping into the chair with her skirt bunched around her waist and the blindfold askew.
Her chest is heaving, blouse half-untucked, and for what it’s worth, despite all the lethally sexy attire and fancy makeup I’ve seen her wear, this is my favorite look. Celeste…satisfied. Celeste…happy.
I rise and kiss her, slow and gentle, her taste still on my mouth. She kisses back lazily, like she’s still not fully in control of motor function. I undo the knot of the blindfold, her hair falling over her eyes as the sash slips away.
She blinks away the intrusive overhead lights. Her pupils are enormous. Her lips are parted. Her hands are still death-gripping the armrests like the chair might eject her into orbit.
“How are those creative blocks feeling now?” I murmur.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I have no thoughts. My brain is completely empty.”
“Perfect.” I smooth my wrinkled pants and straighten my flannel. Then, she watches me pick up her underwear from the floor and tuck them into my back pocket with the deliberate calm of a man who has just performed a service and is collecting his payment.
“Saylor Evans, give me my underwear back.”
“No. Consider them collateral.” I lean against her desk. “Now. I need your apartment keys.”
She’s still gripping the armrests. “My what?”
“Your penthouse keys. I’m planning our first date tonight and I need access to your place. Your other place. Actually, now that we’re on the subject, how many places do you have?”
She relaxes back into the Celeste I recognize, shimmying down her skirt, then crossing her arms, looking almost presentable. “In this country or worldwide?”
“Geez,” I mutter. “Point made.”
“Does my money bother you? Do you think I’m spoiled?”
I shake my head. “No. I just feel bad. Maybe I’m a little old-school, but I feel like a gentleman should pick up the check. But I’ll never be able to afford the meals you order.”
“Well it’s a good thing your cooking beats every Michelin-star restaurant I’ve ever eaten in.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t patronize me.” I chuckle softly, playing it off as a joke. But truly…I wish she wouldn’t pity me. How can she see anything real with a man she can’t respect?
“Everybody has money problems, just the scale is different. But fundamentally, you and I see wealth the same way. Saylor, I had a man who bought me expensive things and took me to fancy places. But he never made me happy. I want a man who can find happiness outside of wealth.”
“I’ve mastered the ‘outside of wealth’ part. I’m working on the happiness part. Is that okay? Am I still a contender?”
“Saylor, you’re the only contender.” I wish I could hold the smile she gives in my pocket forever.
It’s sweet and girlish. A smile that should be dried and pressed, preserving a perfect moment forever.
“So a date,” she repeats, in the voice of a woman whose operating system is rebooting in real time. “Tonight.”
“Tonight. Dress code is whatever you’d wear to a sleepover in college. I’ll handle everything else.” I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
She stares at my hand. Stares at my face. Stares at my back pocket where her lace is visible above the denim.
“The gold one is the front door,” she says, reaching into her purse with hands that haven’t fully steadied. “Silver is the elevator override. Alarm code is one-two-three-four.”
“Celeste when you’ve finished the line, and everything has settled with the custody care, you know…when life feels less heavy…”
“Yeah?” she asks. “Then what?”
“We are going through your passwords and passcodes one by one and changing them into something a five-year-old can’t hack.”
She’s laughing as I take her keys. Kiss her forehead, which feels almost comically chaste given what just happened three feet south of that forehead.
I’m at the door when she calls me back.
“Saylor.”
I turn back. She’s standing by her chair, skirt slightly crooked, hair thoroughly destroyed, the silk sash pooled in her lap like a piece of evidence at a crime scene. She looks like a woman who just experienced something she’ll replay in her head for the rest of the day and possibly longer.
“Tonight… Whatever you’re planning, it better be good.
I promised myself if I ever fell in love again, I’d make sure it was worthwhile.
I’d ask for things that I never asked for in the past—fierce loyalty, kindness, soft but strong hands.
I’m not going to settle this time. So…bring the magic, okay? ”
I salute her. “You’ve got it, Mrs. Robinson. Magic at six o’clock tonight.”
She grimaces. “Seven. I still have a lot of work here to do.”
“Seven it is.” I nod. “But don’t be late.”
I walk out of her office. Past Margot’s empty desk. Past the open floor plan where thirty-some employees are having a perfectly ordinary Friday afternoon with no idea what just happened behind those privacy blinds. Past the hallway where Greg Prescott told me I didn’t belong.
I press the lift button. The doors open. The mirrored walls show me three versions of myself, and in every single one I’m a man with a woman’s keys in his hand and her underwear in his pocket and the absolute, unshakable certainty that Greg Prescott has no fucking idea where I belong.